


Lockdown

by Kelly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelly/pseuds/Kelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John Watson finds himself inexplicably roped into working the infirmary at HM Prison Brixton after returning from the war. Sherlock Holmes finds himself inexplicably incarcerated and does what he can to fend off boredom. Meeting in less than ideal conditions, the pair is pulled together by murder, intrigue, and danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lockdown

"How long have you been back?"

John paused, the butterfly bandage halfway to the man's cheek which was split open and coloring purple and green. "I'm sorry?" he asked, taken off guard. There were many things he'd been expecting the man in front of him to ask, and that wasn't one. John had been planning on responding to 'Do you have a cigarette?' or 'I'm not really all bad, I promise.'

"From the war," the man continued, irritated that John wasn't picking up his train of thought. Although he seemed to hate repeating himself, he asked again, "So how long have you been back? Two weeks, three?"

John was so surprised he forgot that he shouldn't really talk about his personal life, and answered, "Three weeks, give or take."

"Oh no," the man smiled ruefully. "I think you know exactly how long it's been."

Slightly flustered and trying not to show it, John picked up the man's folder, pretending to check on the state of his health but really just looking for a name. If someone had said it, he'd forgotten soon after and wanted to know it now. Holmes, Sherlock was printed at the top of the form.

John flipped the file closed, picking up another plaster. "Twenty-three days," he said eventually, gently sticking the bandage in line with the first.

To his credit Sherlock didn't flinch, although it looked like a nasty blow. "And why is an army doctor treating me instead of one of the staff nurses? Surely something this minor does not require a doctor's touch."

"I'm just helping out."

"You have a friend on the staff," Sherlock said it as a statement instead of a question.

John could have denied it, since this was getting a little weird, but decided against it. It was strangely comforting to have someone just know things about him. "They're short staffed. It's the least I can do until I find myself full-time work."

"Her Majesty's Prison Brixton is, at the best of times, short staffed," Sherlock said dryly. "It might have something to do with the pay, the hours, and the miserable company. Also it seems that most medical professionals don't appreciate an armed guard standing outside their clinic room door."

John glanced over his shoulder to look at said guard. The upper half of the door was glass — or shatterproof plastic, he mentally corrected himself — and the guard stood with his back to the door, just to the side. Should John show any alarm, the man would no doubt burst into the room. The wall alongside the door was covered in windows, lending to an open-room feel. Even in the case of more delicate or personal medical procedures, the doctor and inmate would be on display for the rest of the health center to see.

"When you picked up my file, you wanted to see the reason for my incarceration, didn't you?" Sherlock continued, his voice strangely subdued.

John's gaze was pulled back to the man in front of him, deciding to do some observing of his own. Sitting atop the table, Sherlock was all gangly limbs and blue jumpsuit fabric. Black curls fell in a mop over his forehead and coiled around his ears. His eyes were clear and sharp, appraising and calculating. The cut on his cheek sliced perpendicular to his high cheekbones. His eye would probably be black by the next day.

"I don't care what you've done," John said at last.

Sherlock snapped from his reprieve, seeming to have been giving John a similar once-over. "That's a lie."

John shook his head. "It's none of my business. I don't want to know."

After several beats Sherlock said, "Interesting," then jumped up off the table. He was considerably taller than John, but then again most men were. "Am I cleared to return to the yard, doctor?"  
"Yes, your face might be tender for a few days but you should be fine." John wrote something in Sherlock's file, and for reasons unknown he had the inkling that Sherlock was reading every word upside-down. "Do you have any other problems I can look at while you're here?"

Sherlock smirked, "I think I'll manage. Thank you for your time, Dr Watson. And good luck finding work."

John didn't say anything, just rapping his knuckles against the glass of the door. The guard came in, checking Sherlock's handcuffed wrists before leading him out into the hall. John watched them go, everything feeling surreal for a good hour after that.

* * *

Inside the walls of Brixton prison existed a society unique and primitive compared to the posh London landscape beyond. There were kings, dogs, lackeys, loners, and fighters. Wars were fought with the sharpened end of a plastic spoon and the anticipation of an oncoming attack. Many were familiar with never feeling safe. Have security cost you dearly; whether you paid in dignity or pounds was your choice.

Many things were valuable in prison that men on the outside would scoff at. Cigarettes were a commodity to be traded. Where there was no money, bartering arose. Like the earliest of civilized societies, men traded for things they wanted and needed. Some asked for paper, pens, lighters, and clean pillow cases. Others traded for a hand-job during the showers.

Friends were a status symbol and a show of strength. Favors were more valuable than gold, if the right person owed you. Fear and respect were very closely connected in prison. Sherlock was fascinated by it all, especially since he found himself fitting into rather strange places in the hierarchy.

The guard took Sherlock back to the yard where the inmates on good behavior had two more hours of free time. "No more fighting, yeah?" he said, his voice thick with a cockney accent.

"Apologies," Sherlock responded, although didn't sound very sorry.

The gate squealed as it was opened, and Sherlock stepped inside another cage, this one swimming with fish that would love to take a bite out of him. Men clumped together around the open space; their associations here were great reflections of their social standing, Sherlock mused to himself. A game of basketball was being played between two loosely formed teams, although it was evident that the players were more interested in showing off and making shots than actually playing a real game. Another group of inmates took turns around the weights, some spotting for others while the weak but eager fresh meat watched in awe. The bleachers housed two groups, men huddled playing cards or doing God knows what.

Sherlock started walking around the edge of the fence, catching sight of who he was looking for heading his way from across the yard. His cellmate, Greg Lestrade. Lestrade was sentenced to three years for dealing cocaine, or at least that's the story he told. Sherlock knew the truth. His cellmate was far from a criminal; Lestrade had been undercover for what Sherlock estimated to be about two years. His level in law enforcement was unknown to Sherlock, but it was no doubt fairly high. Although Lestrade wasn't perceptive enough to know that Sherlock knew his secret, Sherlock was confident that the undercover officer was suspicious of his knowledge. Sherlock knew that Lestrade had no family connections to keep him from taking such an extended, deep undercover position, and Lestrade could handle himself well enough to fit into this place. Sherlock wasn't so lucky.

"How's the eye then, mate?" Lestrade asked good-naturedly. Sherlock took a moment to wonder, as he often did, what this man would be like outside these high walls.

"I'll manage," he said, voice cool and eyes sweeping the yard restlessly. "There was a new doctor. He wasn't terribly boring."

"Someone was interesting to the infamously bored stiff Sherlock Holmes? Shoot me dead."

"You don't have to be so dramatic," Sherlock said with a sniff. "And I didn't say he was interesting. I said he wasn't boring."

"For you that's just as good," Lestrade pointed out, leaning against the fence. "So what about this doctor then?"

"He's a war veteran. Presumably not a complete idiot if he's allowed into the surgery, although still very easy to impress and fluster."

"Sherlock," Lestrade looked at his cellmate with a shocked expressed. "Do you  _like_  the good doctor?"

Sherlock gave an indignant snort. "Now you're being stupid. I just don't see many new faces and his wasn't completely unsightly."

"My God man, you're smitten."

"I'm leaving now," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

The two parted ways, as they often did in the yard. Sherlock was aware of Lestrade's networking abilities and being in the presence of Sherlock Holmes didn't help anyone's interpersonal skills.

Sherlock continued along the fence for a while, walking the perimeter of the yard. He observed the other inmates, cataloging their apparent histories, feelings, and interactions. One inmate in particular caught his attention, mostly because the poor sap was trying to work up the nerve to approach him. He was a young man, probably mid-twenties, and the anxious sort who would pick at a scab instead of letting it heal over. In this place he would be classified as a punk; easy to push over — literally and figuratively. Sherlock half wanted to avoid human contact, but decided it might be interesting since the kid obviously had something to say. It might stave off boredom for another hour, at least.

The young man finally came over, rubbing his hands against the legs of his jumpsuit. Sweaty palms, then. Sherlock's analysis was lightning quick. An obsessive videogame player raised in a single parent household. Calluses on the outside of his thumbs and the pads of his pointer fingers. No university education and no apparent technical skills. He unconsciously favored his left arm — an old injury, possibly a dislocation.

The gamer stopped in front of Sherlock, glancing nervously at his face before looking away again. "I heard that you can, ah, solve mysteries."

Sherlock just sent the boy a deadpan expression, remaining silent.

"Someone killed my cellmate."

Maybe the afternoon was looking up.

* * *

John stabbed his fork into the spicy shrimp concoction before him, deciding right then and there that he would pick the restaurant next time he spent his lunch hour out. He loved Thai, really, but this was hardly an upstanding meal. Also, he hated food poisoning.

"You get along well with the inmates," Sarah said, then seemed to realize a moment too late that her conversation starter didn't cast John in a very good light. "What I mean is, you seemed to have a good first day."

"It was enjoyable," he said, sounding surprised. While it didn't compare to Afghanistan, working in the prison was nothing like treating runny noses and sprained wrists at a family clinic. The health clinic at HM Prison Brixton was a whole other animal.

"I could use your help John," Sarah said finally, as he knew she would. "I've hired four doctors in the last six months and every last one of them has left. I can't keep anyone reliable on the staff."

"Should double check CVs, maybe," John said amiably, taking a bite of his meal and washing it down with a quick gulp of water.

"John, I'm serious," Sarah said, putting down her fork and giving him her full attention. "You need work, I need a good doctor. It's an honest job. I know it's not the war, but you fit right in today. The nurses love you. We didn't have one problem with an inmate in the infirmary while you were there."

"I don't know Sarah," John sighed. "I thought I'd…" his voice trailed, his mind flashing back to the front lines, bodies bleeding out into sand, wind blowing in his eyes. He thought he'd be doing that forever. Voices drowned out by gunfire, hands soaking with blood as he sutured, applied pressure, did whatever it took. He was good at it. He saved lives in the most basic sense. Now what did he have?

Sarah's hand on his forearm brought him back to the present. "I know everything you've seen and been through is hard, but this could be good for you. Something steady and not overwhelming. At least promise you'll think about locum work.

She had it all wrong, he mused to himself. He was a horrible person, because he wanted to see more awful things. But that world didn't exist here. "I'll think about it," he promised, and that seemed to satisfy Sarah who smiled and removed her hand.

If things had been different, he could see himself falling in love with Sarah. They did try dating, once before he went on his second tour, but their minds weren't in the same place. She wanted a family and a stable life. He wanted…something else. He couldn't be sure. He just hoped he could grow out of it before he was alone for the rest of his life.

After a few minutes of eating in silence, John asked on a whim, "Do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

Sarah laughed. "That man is an enigma, isn't he? I heard you treated him for some scrapes this afternoon."

"He's rather strange," John said rhetorically, replaying their interactions in his head.

"His file says he's a sociopath," Sarah added conversationally.

John was in the process of taking a drink of water and almost choked. "A sociopath?" he repeated after he'd recovered, sounding almost defensive. "Says who?"

"It wasn't our diagnosis, but it's there in his records," Sarah said, not commenting on John's apparent protectiveness of the inmate. "If you're questioning it, you could always do a psych eval." She was giving him a sweet smile, leaning forward slightly in her eagerness.

"I'm not a psychiatrist and you know it," he said with a grunt, suddenly feeling grumpy. Why was he getting so worked up over this one patient? He'd only spent ten minutes with the man.

"Come on John, just locum work. If you like it, you can come on full time. Whether you want to do psych evals, set broken arms, or clean the toilets, I could use the help."

"God," John scrubbed at his eyes tiredly. "I did not become a doctor to scrub toilets."

And that's when Sarah knew he'd caved.

* * *

Jeremy Stremor was not stabbed, beaten, or otherwise obviously killed by another inmate. At the age of 32, one wouldn't expect him to drop dead of natural causes.

"He was mostly healthy, you know?" Gamer continued, shifting nervously beside Sherlock. Regardless of what his real name might be, Sherlock had started to refer to him as Gamer in his head and now would probably do so out loud as well. "We were cellmates for almost a year. He'd had the flu the week before, but we all get that, you know? I found him over there, just keeled over."

Sherlock stepped into the cell which was a mirror to the one he shared with Lestrade. Two bunk beds pushed against one wall of the narrow room, a toilet in the far corner, a sink beside it. One desk across from the beds and a hard chair. Yard time was over, and the inmates had about an hour before they had to be back in their respective cells for the evening count.

The detective crouched beside the bottom bunk, which Gamer had indicated as Stremor's and where the man had been found dead. "What position was he in when you found him?"

"Sitting up, but kind of slouched against the rail. Someone must have killed him, I'm telling you. There's nothing natural about that. And he wasn't doing the Dutchman, let me tell you, he'd never—"

"Please do us all a favor," Sherlock interrupted drily, "And keep your inane thoughts to yourself. And if you're referring to suicide, at least use the appropriate language. We're not all uncivilized imbeciles."

That seemed to shut him up. The detective turned his attention to the sheets; because Gamer hadn't been assigned a new cellmate, they remained unchanged. Sherlock swiped his hand along the crease between the thin mattress and the railing — crumbs. He sniffed his fingers — chocolate biscuit crumbs. The sheets weren't tucked with military tight precision, but it was decently well-kept.

"Who brought Stremor the chocolate digestives?" he asked, turning back toward the barred entrance. Surprisingly — or unsurprisingly, really — Gamer was no longer alone. Other inmates were loitering around on the walkway. They'd probably heard Sherlock was on a case and came to watch the show.

"His mum, I think," Gamer said, anxiously awaiting a verdict.

Sherlock whirled around, taking in more details. Each side of the desk was covered in personal effects, evenly divided; Stremor's family hadn't collected his belongings, then. But his mother gave him biscuits on a regular basis. "The biscuits came in the mail," Sherlock said.

Although the detective hadn't been asking it as a question, Gamer agreed, "Yeah, he got packages every few weeks."

So his family didn't live near Brixton and sent care packages. Sherlock moved to the side of the desk that obviously housed Stremor's belongings. A picture of a young woman was propped beside an old, rather ornate mug. Girlfriend, obviously, no one displayed a picture of a sister that way. Sherlock shuffled through the paper, finding several rather short notes written in by a woman's left hand. Words and phrases jumped out at him; "thinking of you always," "darling," "getting by," and "it's been so long." Girlfriend from before his incarceration, then.

Sherlock picked up the stack of blank paper, tilting it so he could see the faint indentation of Stremor's last letter. From what Sherlock could make out, Stremor seemed rather poetic. Or perhaps just longwinded.

"His girlfriend, she came to visit him weekly, correct?"

"All the time," Gamer said with a nod. "On Fridays, I think."

"Did your cellmate have very many friends in prison?"

"Everybody likes Jeremy — or liked, I guess." Gamer shuffled his feet. "He'd even let me have his pudding."

"Well," Sherlock swiped a finger along the edge of the desk, rubbing the dust between his thumb and pointer finger. "The good news is that your cellmate was murdered. I just need to see the autopsy report to confirm the cause of death."

"So someone really killed him then? Who was it?"

"Sherlock," a familiar voice interrupted, Lestrade's face concerned as he bent around the corner. "Thought you should know he's out of solitary. They're bringing him in now."

Sherlock grit his teeth, smoothing the front of his jumpsuit. He looked to Gamer, "We'll continue this later, after I see the autopsy report," he said dismissively.

"Who's out of solitary?" the poor sap asked, looking rightfully frazzled as he glanced between Sherlock and Lestrade.

Sherlock looked grim. "Moriarty."


End file.
